Sunday, February 1, 2004

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, September 10, 1916.

Once upon a time a proud and haughty stone lion lived in a garden. He
stood at the end of a lovely walk and from his high stone base looked
disdainfully at every one who passed. How proud and haughty he was you
could never imagine unless you had seen him. With his cold eyes looking
sternly at the garden wall and his stone head reared scornfully in the
air, he stood year after year, through sun and showers and snow--always
the same.

The birds came in the spring and built their nests, the flowers peeped
shyly from their garden beds, bloomed and sweetened the air with their
fragrance as the birds made it lovely with their songs; but children
came into the garden to play and the stone lion never noticed them. Fall
came and turned the leaves to gold and red, the birds flew away again
and the chill November winds heaped the leaves in little piles at the
lion's feet. Then down whirled the snow and covered the garden with its
lovely mantle of white. Again the children came running out to play, but
still the stone lion heeded nothing, and, thinking his cold thoughts,
stood proudly alone.

Then one spring two little robins fluttered down upon the lion's head.
"Same old garden," chirped the first robin, "for here is the LION!" "Oh,
isn't it sweet to come back? Oh, isnt it lovely?" And for very
happiness the second little robin began to twitter so merrily that 'tis a
wonder the stone lion did not melt upon the spot. But he did nothing of
the kind and paid no attention to the little birds, till one stuck its
head on one side and said: "Why, you poor old lion you, it must be
dreadful to be made of stone and never to move about, nor sing, nor be
happy!" What was that? Were these poor, little, insignificant robins
pitying HIM? Why,k the very idea, the impudence! The stone lion fairly
shook with rage, but, being stone, of course, said nothing. Just then a
little squirrel whisked across the lawn and stopped to call "Howde" to
the robins. "I was just saying to Reddy how dreadful it must be for this
lion," chirped the robin sociably. "Never to move, nor talk; never to
do ANYTHING. Why, it's sad, that's what it is!" The squirrel shook his
head thoughtfully. "That's so," said he. "But he'll last a long time.
Why, he might stay here for CENTURIES; at least, that's what Solomon Owl
tells me!"

"Centuries! Centuries!" scoffed the little robin. "Why, I'd rather be a
robin for FIVE minutes than a stone lion for a HUNDRED YEARS!" Which
statement so astonished the proud lion that he almost fell off of his
pedestal. What was all this talk, anyway? Wasn't if enough to stand
grandly aloof? Wasn't it enough for him to BE in the garden for the
people to admire? From being angry he grew curious. He began to notice
the birds in the garden, to listen to their songs and wonder what they
saw when they flew over the high wall. He watched the squirrel whisking
from tree to tree, and it somehow made him feel old and stiff. The
children came and picked flowers, and a lively little puppy tumbled
about with them. "My," thought the stone lion. "How nice it would be to
roll in the grass and run down the path and out of the gate! What COULD
be on the other side, now?" Indeed, he grew so interested and curious
about the life in the garden that he quite forgot to be proud and
self-satisfied. He wished he could turn around so he would not miss what
was going on back of him; and, OH, how he longed to talk to the merry
little robins who perched on his back every afternoon and told strange
stories of the countries they visited. Then summer went so quickly the
stone lion could hardly believe it when the last bird had gone and the
last flower had fallen. He grew lonely, and one night he could contain
himself no longer and he wept--REAL tears, too, for he wasn't stone
inside any more. And the tears trickled down into the home of the Fairy
of the Garden. And it didn't take her long to find out, honeys; and next
thing she had waved her wand and the stone lion was gone. On his stone
pedestal perched a gay little robin, and as it looked it spread its
wings and flew up and up and away over the garden wall. The Fairy had
granted the wish in the lion's heart, for the lion had been saying over
and over again, "I had rather be a live robin than a STONE LION. I had
rather live than last." Better a robin for five minutes than a stone
lion for five centuries! And I think so, too!

THE FORGETFUL POET

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, June 3, 1917

Some More Riddles That Rhyme

The Forgetful Poet says that some folks think there is more rhyme than
reason in his verses, but that the boys and girls know just what he
means. And I believe you do, judging from the answers that come tumbling
into the office on Monday mornings. He says that the blanks this week
should be filled in by authors and poets. Well, did you ever?

The Tale of a Stolen Cake

Oh, once a laddie stole a cake
And ran with might and main,
Tripped down and fell. Ah, dear! Ah, well!
He broke the cake in ------.
The baker caught him. I regret
To say, he used his ------,
Which in a passion he did wield
Till the lad escaped across the ------.
The baker looking very ------
Declared he'd tell his dad on him.
While on his shop his back he turns
Alas! his largest plum pie ------.

Send your answers to the Forgetful Poet, care of the Public Ledger. The
Forgetful Poet wishes to compliment Hamor Michener on his correct
answers, also Miss Jean Page.